


I’ll love you long after you’re gone

by stopthenrewind



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (across all of the movies), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scenes, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, a follow-up from steve's POV may or may not come, also: this takes some stuff from the comics, and also just Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23804902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthenrewind/pseuds/stopthenrewind
Summary: Natasha’s spent lifetimes saving herself. In this lifetime, they save each other.(Or, the one where Steve goes to Vormir.)
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 32
Kudos: 151





	I’ll love you long after you’re gone

**Author's Note:**

> How this happened: Over the past month, I made a playlist of sad songs, read a bunch of poems, and somehow my hand slipped and wrote down 10k words to let out all my feelings about Nat, and Nat/Steve, and their story throughout the course of the MCU. (Albeit, Bruce/Nat and Steve/Sharon never happened in this one...oops.)
> 
> (Also: according to my Instagram story archives, I watched Endgame exactly a year ago today so posting this now feels oddly fitting. Whatever. It makes sense to me.)

I only ever thought there were two kinds of love:  
The kind you would kill for, and the kind you would die for.  
But you, my darling, you were the kind of love I would live for.  
\- o.g.k.

::

_The sound pierces through the silence:_

_“Nat!”_

It’s loud, _she thinks, almost frowning despite herself._ It’s too loud.

 _“Oh my god. Nat. Oh, Nat_. _”_

_Please stop. Please stop talking._

_“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry.”_

_There are hands on her shoulders. On her back._

_Running up and down her arms._

It’s warm _, she realizes suddenly._ She feels warm.

_“I should’ve—I should’ve been with you. I should’ve stopped you.”_

_Who…_

_“It should’ve been me.”_

_The voice—it’s breaking. Like it’s…crying._

_It has to_ stop _._

_“I should’ve—I should’ve…”_

_There’s a pause, and there are fingers, warm and big and rough, sliding between hers._

_“I’ve wasted so much time.”_

Please stop, _she wants to say._ Please stop crying.

_The fingers slide down to her wrist, then stops._

_“What—”_

_There’s a slight pressure on her wrist._

_Then on her neck._

It’s really warm, _she finds herself thinking. She doesn’t want to move._ I feel really warm.

_“Oh my god—”_

_She doesn’t even know where she is._

_“Oh my god. N-Nat?”_

_Where is she?_

_“Nat—”_

_What is happening?_

_The pressure is on her neck again._

_Then suddenly there is warmth, all over her—her skin, her arms, her face._

There are arms around me _, she realizes._ Someone is holding me.

_It feels—it feels—_

_Familiar._

Who are you? _she wants to ask, but she can’t find her voice._

 _“Nat, oh my god. You’re—” the voice chokes, “you’re_ alive _.”_

::

Her earliest memory is of fire, and warmth. 

A fire, she recalls. A fire that started in the kitchen.

There’s a man, she remembers. There’s a man holding her hand, shielding her against the fire and the heat that consumes her house.

“My name is Ivan,” the man tells her, once they’re safely inside an old brick red building, sitting her down in the hallway while a stern-looking woman who calls herself Madame B waits almost impatiently down the hall. “You are safe now.”

She remembers a roomful of young, lonely little girls. They dance around the room, pointing their toes at the floor. Young Natalia Romanova has never felt more alive than when she is spinning and jumping and gliding along with the music.

“Natalia!”

The music stops. Suddenly, Madame is standing in front of the room, pointing a gun at an instructor’s head and pulling the trigger.

Natalia flinches. A gun, hot and heavy, is placed in her hand.

“Do it,” Madame says, and Natalia looks up and sees Kira, standing in front of the room. Staring back at her, looking terrified.

(Kira, the girl who shares her bed and whispers words of comfort to her at night. The girl they deem to be weak.)

She hesitates. Madame notices.

“Do it, Natalia,” she barks, and a gunshot goes off, ringing in her ears. She drops the gun, and she realizes her hands are shaking.

There is a hand on her shoulder, and a voice—Madame’s voice—tells her, “Good job, Widow.” She is pushed to the floor, and Natalia finds herself kneeling in blood. Kira’s blood. “Now, clean up your mess.”

She remembers wiping up the blood, then washing it off her hands later that night, feeling twenty-six other girls’ eyes on her, following her every move.

She looks down, and there is blood from her toes, staining the tips of her ballet shoes, dragging across the wooden floor.

There is blood oozing from a knife to her cheek, when she yields from a spar and nearly falls to the ground in exhaustion.

There is blood from her knife, dripping onto the floor, as she pulls it out from between her target’s unseeing eyes. She remembers thinking, _My target is a child,_ and feeling too much and not enough, all at once.

There is blood on her hands—so much blood, too much blood—staining them red, staining her clothes, staining the floor; washing down the drain as she rubs and rubs and _rubs_ until her skin is pink and raw.

 _Get it off,_ she remembers thinking, the water burning as it beats against her skin. _Get it off me._

She yells the words, the screaming reverberating inside her skull, but she never makes a sound, her loud thoughts drowned out by the sound of the water.

“You need to take your place in the world, Natalia,” Madame tells her, over and over and over. “You need to _earn_ your place. And you will never do that if you fail. You must never fail.”

“I will never fail,” she says, but after—after she’s snapped Nadia’s neck (dear Nadia, small Nadia; Nadia, who hid bread under her pillow, and shared it with her; Nadia, who helped her clean up dried blood off her face; Nadia, who slept in the bed next to hers; dear Nadia, sweet Nadia, _weak_ Nadia)—after, when she’s lying on her back and feeling the metal cuffs dig into the reddened skin of her wrist, she looks to her left and sees Nadia’s empty bed and thinks:

_I have no place in the world._

::

_What the hell happened?_

_Where is she?_

_Who is she?_

::

Natasha sees the world in shades of gray, in streaks of red that stains her hands and drips, drips, drips on the cold, hard floor. Good and evil, truths and lies, life and death—all of it is blurred around the edges.

Captain America—Steve Rogers—sees the world in black and white. 

The first time she meets him on the helicarrier, he looks less like the American soldier she’s been taught about in the Red Room, and more like the scrawny little kid from Brooklyn that he used to be—uncertain, and anxious, and so goddamn polite, and she almost wants to laugh at the way he combs his fingers through his hair and calls her _ma’am_.

The first time she sees him fight is a different story—gone is the uncertainty, the anxiety, the politeness; he is pure aggression, and strength, and skill, and a tiny bit of recklessness, too, if his little grin as he launches her high up into the air using his shield is anything to go by. 

After the Battle of New York, she sees where Captain America and Steve Rogers begin to blur around the edges, too—how he is everything and nothing at all like the history books make him out to be. 

::

Frankly, SHIELD Headquarters is the last place she expects to find Steve Rogers, several months after New York, smiling at her almost uncertainly when she walks into Nick Fury’s office.

When Fury announces he’s assigning them as partners, the smile drops from the good Captain's face, and she kind of wants to laugh, because it's almost _funny_. 

“I’m not going to be his babysitter,” Natasha says.

In her periphery, Steve frowns. “I’m sitting right here,” he says, sounding irritated, “and I’m not expecting you to be.”

She almost sneers at him, but stops herself in time. “Good.”

“I’m expecting you to help the Captain acclimate to the 21st century, Agent Romanoff,” Fury barks, “not babysit. I’m expecting you to work with him, and fight alongside him, and teach him how to be a great agent, because you’re one of the best we’ve got and you damn well know it.”

A shoulder lifts in a casual shrug. “I do.”

“It’s settled, then.” Fury turns away from them, pulling up a holographic screen behind his desk and studying it, his dismissal of them clear. "Expect your first mission in a week. Dismissed."

(Steve doesn't protest, just spares a glance in her direction before he leaves; and Natasha wonders how he somehow manages to look mad and resigned and almost _righteous_ when he does.) 

She keeps her arms crossed in front of her. “What are you trying to pull here, exactly?”

Fury doesn’t face her, pulling up even more screens and tap-tap-tapping away. “I’ve seen you two fight in New York, Romanoff.”

“And…you thought that that equals a partnership?” She frowns. “It was one time. You know I either work with Barton, or I work alone.”

“Agent Barton is otherwise predisposed, after New York,” Fury says pointedly, “as you very well know. And Captain Rogers prefers to work with a team. He already knows you from the Battle of New York. He’s comfortable with you.”

“If he wants a team, then assign him to STRIKE. Not as my _partner._ ”

“I’m not changing my mind, Agent.”

“I just don’t understand, Nick.”

“Thought this was easy enough to _get_ , Romanoff.” Fury turns to her, an eyebrow raised.

“He’s Captain America.”

“And?”

“He’s a soldier,” she points out, “not a spy.”

“That’s where you come in.”

She laughs. “I’m the Black Widow, Nick. See the irony there?”

“I don't.”

She sighs. “I lie and cheat for a living. He’s—he’s honesty and goodness and righteousness all rolled into a suit of—of _red, white, and blue_ , for god’s sake.”

“That’s exactly why I expect you to teach him the ways of SHIELD, and the ways of a spy,” he says, “and I expect _you_ to learn from him, too.”

“Learn what?” she scoffs. “War stories? How to be a ‘good person’?”

She thinks she catches a trace of a smile on his face just before he turns his back to her once again, not allowing her to protest further. He resumes tap-tap-tapping on the hologram screens in front him, and she sighs, seeing the final dismissal for what it is.

“You already _are_ good, Romanoff,” Fury says, as she’s about to leave. “But I expect him to teach you to _believe_ that you are, too.”

::

_She starts chanting it inside her head:_

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova._

_I am one of 28 young ballerinas with the Bolshoi._

_No, wait. That’s not right._

_“You’re alive. Oh my god, I have to get you out of here. I—”_

_No._

_She stops. Starts over._

_I am Natalia Alianovna Romanova._

_I am one of 28…28…_

_“Nat…can you hear me?”_

_No… Get off me…_

_“Please. Open your eyes.”_

_Get away from me._

_“Nat… Nat, please wake up.”_

_One of 28…_

_“Nat… Please, Nat.”_

_Get away from me!_

_“Please.”_

_The training is hard. But the glory of the Soviet culture, and the warmth of my parents…_

_“I have to—I have to get you out of here.”_

_My…parents…makes up for…_

_“Please wake up.”_

_No…that’s not. That’s not right. She shudders, closes her eyes._

_I am…_

_One of 28 Black Widow agents…in the Red Room._

_“Nat.”_

_The Red Room…_

_“Nat.” The voice breaks. “Nat, please._ Please. _”_

_You…_

_Wake up…_

_Wake up…_

_“Please.”_

_Wake…up!_

_“Please wake up.”_

_So she does._

::

They’re in Belarus when Steve Rogers sees a glimpse of her—the _real_ her—for the first time.

When she is tasked to take down Ivan Petrovich.

And kill him in cold blood.

“Natasha,” Steve says, following her hesitantly into the musty old SHIELD safehouse, “are you okay?”

_You killed them, Natalia._

_You killed_ all _of them!_

“Fine.”

“What happened back there?”

_Children! They were all children!_

_And you murdered them all._

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to what?”

_Do you hear their cries in your nightmares, Natalia?_

_Do they haunt you every night?_

_They should. They should._

“Please stop.”

“Natasha, what are you—”

_You murdered them._

_You’ll never be_ anything _but a murderer._

_You fool yourself into thinking you’ve changed. That you’re someone better._

_You’re not._

“I know.”

“…Natasha.”

 _You think you’ve found your place in the world? In the_ Avengers?

_You’re fooling yourself. You’re not the hero here, Natalia._

_I made you into the Black Widow._

_You’ll always be the Black Widow._

“Natasha?”

“Stop,” she whispers. She drops to her knees on the floor and faces away from Steve, who’s standing by the door with confusion etched on his face. “Go away.”

_Are you going to kill me, Natalia?_

“I just want to help—”

_Can you?_

“Go _away,_ Rogers!”

_Do it._

“Natasha—”

_Do it!_

“No one can help me,” she gasps, clutching at her chest. She hears the bang of the bullet, reverberating inside her head, and it shouldn’t hurt, but it does. _It does_. “ _You_ can’t help me.”

His voice softens when he says, “At least let me try,” and honestly, damn him. Damn Steve Rogers and his genuine voice and his stupidly stubborn heart and his inability to see people as they really fucking are.

“You can’t help me,” she repeats.

She feels him hovering behind her, crouching down to her level, sinking into the dirty worn carpet.

“You’re not what he made you, you know.”

“You don’t have to fucking lie to me to make me feel better,” she snaps. “It doesn’t. I know you’ve read my file.”

“I have.” One of his hands finds its way to her shoulder, and she feels the sudden urge to shrug it off, to get his touch away from her. “But I know _you_.”

“You really don’t.”

 _Don’t you see it?_ she wants to ask him. _Don’t you see the red?_

_Don’t you see death when you see me?_

He sighs quietly. “When will you ever see that you’re _good_ , Natasha?”

She stills, and she feels the warmth of his hand, sinking into her skin.

 _You’re already good._ _But I expect him to teach you to_ believe _that you are._

She curses Nick Fury to the heavens, says, “I’m not,” and she refuses to say anything more, because she is so fucking _tired_ and she doesn’t need to be hearing this right now and she just wants to be _alone_.

Here’s the thing about Steve Rogers, though—he’s a stubborn motherfucker. He sits with her in silence as she breathes ( _in and out, in and out_ ), and he maintains his distance, gives her her space; but he still sits near enough that she feels the heat of his furnace of a body behind her, hear the deep breaths he takes that she feels on the nape of her neck.

She doesn’t realize he’s slowing down his breathing until she’s unconsciously matching it with hers until much later, until she feels calm and stable enough to turn to him and meet his eyes; and she kind of hates the way it makes her feel—the way it makes her feel vulnerable, the way that makes her feel _safe_.

Steve smiles when she looks up at him, then says, “Come on,” and pulls at her arms with gentle hands until she unfolds them and follows his movements. She finds the contrast fascinating; one of the strongest men on earth, a super soldier with rough skin and calloused fingers—and gentle eyes, and a gentle smile, and gentle hands that hold her like she’s someone to be taken care of—and she lets him, because she’s tired of fighting it, because for once, she just wants to give in to this feeling of safety she hasn’t felt in a long time—not since Clint Barton offered her his hand and a chance at a new life. And she wants it, god damn it, she wants it.

“You don’t have to do this, Steve,” she mumbles. She is tired; so so _so_ tired.

“I know,” he smiles, “but let me do it, anyway.”

::

_Blue eyes. Blue eyes. Blue eyes._

_Why do they—she knows those eyes—_

_I…_

_Who are you?_

::

She is Natalia when she graduates from the Red Room and is recruited into the KGB. When she follows orders without hesitation; when she kills and fucks and manipulates and tortures; when she leaves twenty-seven Widows-in-training dead behind her, never looking back.

She is the Black Widow when Hawkeye points an arrow right between her eyes; when she lowers her gun in front of him and walks forward until her forehead is touching the tip of the arrowhead; when she lets herself feel all the guilt and the pain and the regret, after so long; when she looks him in the eye and tells him, “Just do it.”

She is Agent Romanoff when she is tasked to work alongside Captain America, and becomes Steve Rogers’ friend; when she takes him around New York, suggests movies and books to add to his list, and breaks into his apartment and hangs around like she belongs there; when she betrays his trust on the Lemurian Star and regrets it for hours.

But when Steve Rogers sits across from her inside Sam Wilson’s bedroom and tells her he trusts her with his life; when she jumps 10 feet from the helicopter and runs to him, dropping to her knees on the sand beside his body, hands grasping at him, checking for wounds, pressing against the blood—oh God, the _blood_ —

When she whispers angrily, "Stay with me, Steve," and works to stop the bleeding, the red oozing out of him and onto her fingers at a rapid pace; when she says, "Don't give up on me now. We don't—we _never_ —give up on our people. Remember? We don't trade lives. So don't—” she chokes, "don't you dare give up now"—

When she stands beside his hospital bed, watching his chest rise and fall to the steady beep of the heart monitor; when she finds herself sitting on the edge of the mattress, threading shaking fingers through his hair—

When she finds herself thinking, _Don't leave me, Steve_ ; when she clutches his hand in hers, and thinks, _Don't leave me here alone_ —

When she feels her heart in her throat when his eyes flutter open—slowly, slowly, slowly, until she sees blue eyes blinking up at her—

When those eyes soften when he says, “Hi,” and she feels her entire body shudder with relief—

When she says, “Hi, soldier,” and she feels his fingers tighten around hers—

When he whispers, “Nat,” and her chest lurches at the way his mouth melts into a tired smile—

—all those times, with Steve Rogers, she is simply Natasha. 

::

Weeks later, after Steve and Sam start their search for a ghost, she finds herself in Missouri.

Clint watches her carefully when they’re alone together in the kitchen, after Laura and the kids have gone to bed. “What are you really doing here, Nat?”

She shrugs, accepts the steaming mug of coffee he hands her and wraps her hands around the ceramic. “Is it a crime to want to see the kids, Barton?”

“No, I meant…what are you doing _here_?”

She doesn’t meet gaze, watches the steam rise out of her cup. “Gotta go figure out some new covers.”

Clint settles in the chair across from her and continues studying her—and it makes Natasha feel _exposed_ , and _vulnerable_ , the way his eyes watch her, and drink her in. Those eyes that have known her far too long, far too well.

“Didn’t go with him.” He doesn’t say it like a question; he says it like he just knows. And he does, because he knows _her_.

Another shrug. A long sip of coffee. Eyes that refuse to look up, instead staring into the depths of her drink. “He didn’t ask.”

He is silent. She refuses to squirm under his questioning stare.

“Nat,” he says finally. He waits until she looks up. There’s understanding in his eyes, and a trace of—of _sympathy_ , that she doesn’t fucking _need_. “What are you doing?”

“I’m figuring it out.”

“I think you’re running away.”

“I’m not running away from anything.”

“And you’re a fucking good liar,” Clint says, “but you can’t lie to me.”

Natasha’s hand curls tightly around her cup. “He still doesn’t understand,” she says, “who I am. What I’ve done. He thinks I’m _good._ ”

Clint raises one eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

She sinks further into her chair and thinks she’s had this conversation before.

“I’ve released my entire file to the world.” She sounds tired, even to her ears. “I have no secrets left. Once he reads my file—my complete file—he’ll finally understand. He considers me a _friend_ , for crying out loud. I don’t even fucking deserve it.”

Clint shakes his head. “Natasha—”

“He’s so _good,_ Clint. He looks at me like I’m—like I’m just as good as he is, and he doesn’t see that that’s the farthest thing from the truth.”

“Thought truth was a matter of circumstance.”

“That’s right. And in this circumstance, I’m an assassin. A spy.”

“And in another,” Clint says, “you’re an agent. And an Avenger. A great aunt to my kids. A good friend to Laura. A best friend to me.”

She feels a lump in her throat when she glances up at him. His eyes are soft, and warm, and open, and she remembers kneeling in front of him, asking him to kill her—and him lowering his bow, taking her hand in his, and letting her see that she still has a choice to become better. That there’s still a second chance at a good life, beyond the Red Room, waiting for her out there.

Her eyes are burning, but she doesn’t cry. She never cries, especially not in front of him. “Clint,” she whispers, “shut up.”

“In other circumstances,” he says softly, stubbornly, “you’re also a good partner, Nat.” His hand darts out across the table, fingers touching hers until she releases her grip on her cup. “I’ve known that for who knows how fucking long. And for the last two years, you’ve been a good partner to Cap, too. You saved his life in DC. You were right there, fighting the bad guys beside him.”

“He saved my life, too,” she says quietly. “I owe him.”

He smiles a little. “You’re a good friend to Steve Rogers, you know. He trusts you.”

“That’s what scares me.” She releases a deep breath as his thumb brushes over her knuckles, his skin rough but his touch gentle in a way that’s familiar and calming and easy, just as he’s always been. “ _He_ scares me.”

Clint’s smile softens at her admission. “I know.”

“He trusts me with his _life_ , Clint,” she says, “and that scares the shit out of me.” 

“I know.”

“And I trust _him_. I don’t—I haven’t trusted… _anyone_ …in so long.”

Clint studies her again. “You trust him with your life?”

“Yes.” Natasha swallows. “I do.”

“Well.” Clint squeezes her fingers. “Don’t you think that counts for something?”

::

_“Natasha_ … _” the voice says. “It’s me.”_

_I don’t—I don’t know who—_

_“Please. You know me._ You know me. _”_

_I don’t! I don’t—I don’t—_

_“Please.”_

_No! Get away from me._

_There’s a long silence as she turns away._

_“What have I done?”_

_A choked sob._

_Then the voice says, “I’m so sorry, Nat,” and suddenly, her chest hurts._

::

(Here’s the thing with her and Steve Rogers: She can’t really stay away from him too long. Not anymore. Not even when they’re supposed to be.

So when he asks her, as they’re standing on the aisle of a quiet church in London, “What are you doing here?”, she says, “I didn’t want you to be alone,” and she means it.)

::

(Here’s another thing with her and Steve Rogers:

He could never really stay away for too long, either.)

::

It takes him three months to find her, in an abandoned building in St. Petersburg, as she’s spinning on the tips of her toes to the strains of Tschaikovsky playing inside her head.

She hears him before she sees him; makes one last twirl before she comes to a graceful stop, her eyes falling on him leaning almost casually against the doorframe.

“You dance the way you fight,” he comments, breaking the silence.

“No,” she corrects, “I fight the way I dance.”

The corners of his lips turn up into a smile, and her heart squeezes.

“Got your message.”

“Took you long enough.”

“You’re a hard woman to find.”

“I try my best.”

He laughs, shaking his head, and there’s a fondness there, in his movements, in his smile, in his eyes as he drinks her in, as he makes his way towards where she’s standing in the middle of the room.

“Well,” he says, “too bad you can’t keep me away that easily.”

She smirks when he stops in front of her, and they don’t say anything for a long, long moment. She realizes she hasn’t seen him in _months,_ and now he’s _here_ and she doesn’t even know what to say.

Then she’s suddenly in his arms, in his warmth, in his scent—in everything Steve Rogers she doesn’t realize she’s missed until he’s right here in the flesh. He says, “It’s okay for me to say that I missed you, right?” into her hair, making her laugh as she burrows her face into his chest, breathing him in. She hardly ever puts her guard down, but in that moment, in that exact long moment, she’s probably one of the realest she’s ever been. 

“Surprised you lasted this long without me, to be honest,” she mumbles into his vest, and his chest rumbles as he laughs.

“Nearly didn’t.”

“Thank you for admitting it.”

He laughs again, then says, “Come on,” his lips brushing against her temple. “Let’s go home.”

::

Maybe that’s just it.

Maybe home…it’s not exactly a place, and she’s never really had one—not in Stalingrad, not in DC, not in New York.

No, maybe…maybe home is a matter of circumstance, too.

Maybe it’s late nights curled up on a couch and drinking cheap beer after long missions, or missions gone bad.

Maybe it’s dingy motel rooms and three tired bodies squeezing into one bed while the fourth makes do on the floor.

It’s secret missions and pushing each other out of harm’s way and patching each other up afterwards, bantering about who’s the better shot and arguing who gets to venture outside in search of their next meal.

It’s Sam cooking Wanda’s favorite chicken paprikash, and Steve burning bacon on the stove. It’s Natasha hunting for supplies downtown, and Wanda returning from solo excursions with small gifts for everyone—an old cookbook for Sam, a blank sketchpad for Steve, thrifted ballet shoes for Natasha.

It’s Nat and Sam, teasing Steve for his sasquatch look while Steve just rolls his eyes at them. It’s Wanda, helping trim Nat’s hair and apply the blonde dye, and the two of them laughing while they struggle to wash it off on the tiny sink. It’s Steve, staring at her from across the room when she debuts her new ‘do, Sam laughing at the look on his face and Natasha grinning as she playfully scratches his beard. It's her asking, “What, you don't like the blonde?” and him blushing as he tugs at the ends of her now-short hair, “Just really gonna miss the red.”

It's Sam giving her a knowing smirk behind Steve’s back, and it’s Natasha flipping him off, right in front of everyone.

It’s Wanda whipping out a small homemade cake from behind her back, a hand waving over the candle and leaving a flickering flame in its wake. It’s Sam singing _Happy Birthday_ as quietly as he could, Natasha whispering, “Happy fourth of July, Steve,” and blue eyes meeting hers in the dark, the firelight dancing in his irises. “Make a wish.”

Maybe it’s Steve Rogers, holding her hands in his to warm them. Smiling at her from across the room. Shakily dressing her wounds as he looks her over, his eyes worried and frantic. Leaving a cup of coffee for her on their tiny dining table, just the way she likes it. Handing her the newspaper so she can finish off the crossword he didn’t finish. Planning their next mission, gathering intel, always watching her back. Sleeping next to her on the floor, as Wanda hogs the sheets on the single bed and Sam grumbles on the couch; his warmth always a welcome familiarity, his breathing deep and even, his fingers dancing teasingly next hers.

Maybe it’s this right here, as she tentatively places a hand on his where it rests between them, as she hesitantly laces his fingers with his own. Maybe it’s this. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s them.

His hand tightens around hers, and her breathing evens out as she closes her eyes.

Maybe it’s this right here—maybe here, she’s home.

::

Who are you? _she feels like screaming._

_Who are you?_

_Who are you to me?_

_Why do I feel like I know you?_

_Why do you feel like home to me?_

_“You are,” the voice says. It’s still crying, the voice still hoarse. “You are.”_

::

The scary thing, about all of this, about letting herself _have_ this—this little ragtag group of fugitives—of letting herself find a place for herself within them, of letting herself imagine that maybe, just maybe, she belongs _here_ ; that maybe, just maybe, the Red Room and the voices in her head are fucking _wrong_ —is that things could get fucked up.

The scary thing, the _terrifying_ thing about this—this little ragtag group of fugitives she’s come to call home, that she’s come to associate with sleepless nights and secret missions and an inexplicable, fleeting, almost dangerous feeling of contentment, of _happiness_ —is that it could so easily be taken away, too.

The scary thing, the terrifying thing about this—about letting herself have this, about letting them into her life, about letting herself into theirs—is that now, she’s got something to lose.

When Steve dives in front of the bullet speeding in her direction _like a fucking idiot_ and starts bleeding and gasping and blinking in and out of consciousness right in front of her—when his clammy hands try unsuccessfully grasping her own—when the blood, _oh god why is there blood, his blood, all over again,_ coats her hands and drips down her fingers as she presses them desperately into the gaping hole in his chest—

That—that right then—Natasha is fucking _terrified_ that she’s about to lose everything.

::

(Shaky leg. Shaky hands. Shaky breaths.

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

A voice—she thinks it could be Wanda’s, but she’s not sure, she’s not sure about anything anymore: “Nat…Nat, you need to get some rest.”

A shake of her head, hand grasping the edge of the bedspread.

She watches his chest fall up and down, up and down, up and—

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

“He’s gonna be okay, Nat.” It’s Sam’s voice this time, but he sounds so far away, and she can’t focus on anything; just continues watching Steve’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall—

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

She feels Sam settling into the hard plastic chair beside hers.

“You’d do anything to protect him,” he says, his voice quiet, and she finds herself nodding along, movements jerky, trying to control the rapid bouncing of her knee, the shaking of her hands.

“That’s what we do,” she says, and her heart is tight, it’s so fucking tight. “That’s what we always do. We don’t leave each other behind.”

A hand drops on her shoulder, and something hot rolls down her cheek that she angrily brushes away.

“It goes both ways, you know,” Sam says. “The ‘not letting each other get hurt’ thing. The ‘putting yourself in harm’s way so they don’t get hurt’, ‘saving each other’s life’, ‘can't live without each other’ thing. It’s a thing we do. It's something that just is.”

“I know,” she says, but it doesn’t stop her from being fucking terrified; and she’s angry, she’s so angry, because now, _now,_ she’s got something she doesn’t ever want to lose.

Natasha takes a deep breath— _breathe, breathe, breathe_ —and reaches up to grasp Sam’s fingers; they stay like that for a long, long time, listening to nothing else but the sound of Steve’s breathing.)

::

Here is the thing Natasha learns, not long after:

When she says, “Please don't do something like that ever again,” Steve answers, “You know I can’t promise that.”

When she asks, “Why do you have to be so goddamn stubborn all the time?”, he replies, “You know I can’t just stand by and watch you get hurt.”

When she argues, “I can take care of myself,” he argues back, “I know, but you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

When he tells her, “I can’t lose any more people,” she hears, _I can’t lose_ you _,_ and when she meets his eyes, she learns that Steve Rogers is just as terrified of losing her as she is of losing him.

::

_Her entire body is trembling as she falls to her knees._

_Who am I?_

_Who am I?_

Who am I?

::

In the end, they couldn’t stop it from happening.

In the end, it’s their worst fears, come to life.

In the end, they end up losing.

She kneels next to him on the ground, and he’s trembling, watching the ashes blowing away in the wind.

“I thought…” he swallows, “I thought you were gone, too.”

Her free hand cups his cheek—gently, gently, gently—and he turns to her, grasping at her waist, eyes falling closed.

“Not an option,” she says, and he lets out a broken laugh.

“Can’t lose you, too,” he whispers, and Natasha feels her entire heart burning, ripping out of her chest and into the palm of his hands.

She whispers against his hair, “You won’t.”

::

_“You’re Natasha Romanoff,” the voice says, almost hesitantly._

_I’m…_

_I’m… I’m…_

_“I’m Steve.”_

_Steve…_

_Steve…_

_“R-remember me?”_

_No… I… No…_

_“Please, I’ve… I’ve waited so long to see you again.”_

_I don’t know who you are._

::

Thor leaves first.

Then Tony.

Then Bruce.

And Clint’s been gone for too long for Natasha to know he’s not coming back soon.

So when she watches Steve pack an overnight bag for Brooklyn, she asks him, “Are you leaving, too?” because despite everything, despite all the promises, she knows he’s been spending too many long days in the city, and she knows the compound is too big for just the two of them; that there are too many ghosts, too many memories, too many _what-ifs_ and regrets and _what-might-have-beens._

“Just for a couple of days,” he says, then presses his lips to the top of her head. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

She grows used to sleeping alone every time he’s gone, fighting off nightmares by herself, and hating the way the facility feels too quiet and empty and lonely without him.

::

She finds him standing in the kitchen at the crack of dawn one day, going through the cupboards. It’s the first time he’s returned to the compound in six days, not that Natasha’s counting—yet she still feels a pang the moment he turns his head and greets her with a familiar smile she’s missed in the time he’s been gone.

“Why do we have _nothing_ here except bread?” he asks, by way of greeting.

She lifts a shoulder casually as she makes her way to the coffee maker where a fresh pot is already brewing. “Got peanut butter.”

“I can go pick up some stuff from the grocery store—”

“Don’t bother. I can just have them delivered.”

He frowns. “Then why don’t you?”

“Don’t have the time.” She shrugs again. “And it’s not like there are a lot of people here to buy groceries for.”

“Have you even been eating anything else besides peanut butter sandwiches?”

“You know, I once survived on half a loaf of bread for a month.”

He sighs, “Nat.”

She replies, “Steve,” almost mockingly casual.

She can feel his gaze on her as she pours coffee into two mugs, stirs in some cream and sugar, then slides one across the counter to him.

“How was Brooklyn?”

He sips his coffee. “Well, the group was…we’ve gotten some newcomers recently, and it wasn’t…it wasn’t exactly the easiest part of my day. It never is.”

She knows he’s thinking about Sam. “I know.”

“I’m glad to be able to help other people out, you know? But it’s hard.” He takes a deep breath. “After a few days, I just…I just really needed to come home.”

“Yeah?”

“Needed to clear my head.”

“That all?”

“And do some laundry.”

“Are there no laundromats in Brooklyn good enough for Captain America?”

His mouth twitches. “That, and I just…really needed to see a friend.”

“Oh?”

“Needed to check up on her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t need checking up on.”

“She doesn’t eat.”

“Maybe she’s on a diet.”

“She looks like she barely sleeps.”

“It’s 2019, Steve,” she reminds him. “The unbrushed hair look is _so_ in during the apocalypse.”

He rolls his eyes. “And she works herself to exhaustion.”

“Well, maybe somebody needs to get the work done.”

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be.”

“How would you know?” she says, her tone suddenly biting. “You’re never here.”

She watches his face crumple before he evens out his expression; she sees him swallow and feels a tinge of regret. “Did you even leave the house at all while I was gone?”

“Why would I? There’s nothing out there I particularly want to see.”

He sighs. "You're making it awfully difficult for me to take care of you, you know.”

“Maybe I don’t need to be.”

“Maybe I want to.”

She shakes her head, meeting his eyes. “You should get a life, Steve.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I could say the same to you.”

::

_“It’s me, Steve,” he says._

No.

_No, I don’t know you._

_“I—I love you.”_

_Burning under her eyelids. It burns. Scars. She can't open her eyes or there will be more pain, she's sure of it._

_“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but…I do.”_

_No. No, you can’t._

_“I can,” the voice says. Determined. Strong. Unwavering. “I do. I love you.”_

_I…_

_Love is for children._

::

When it finally happens, Natasha thinks it’s probably been a long, long time coming, this thing between them. They never acknowledge it, they never talk about it, but she knows, and _he_ knows—and she sees the way he looks at her, thinks of the way her heart twists and throbs and burns every time she does.

She knows there’s something different about the way he’s looking at her now, in the past year where it’s only been the two of them in an empty facility they try to fill with good memories, to tune out the ghosts that roam the halls. It’s different in the way he’s never allowed himself to look at her before—like she’s everything he wants, like she’s the world to him, and right now, in this moment, she probably is.

Everyone else they love is gone, but they’re still here.

The world is in ruins, but the rest of them continue to live on.

They’re splintered, and tired, and broken; but here, with everything he’s ever felt laid bare in his eyes for her to see, she knows her eyes say the same, knows they’re two halves of the same whole.

It’s been a long, long time coming, she acknowledges one night, after he comes home from Brooklyn and her heart stutters at the way his tired eyes light up when he sees her; at the way he drops down on the couch next to her and leans his forehead on her shoulder, eyes closed and breaths deep and calm.

She swallows when his eyes flick up to meet hers, and suddenly she’s kissing him, smiling at the way he falters in surprise before he starts kissing her back. She cups the back of his neck and pulls at the ends of his hair, and the kiss is soft, and slow, and lingering—and she allows herself to want, to desire, and to take, and to give; she hasn’t done anything for herself in a long, long time, until now. Until this. Until him.

He pulls away after god knows how long, touching his forehead to hers as he catches his breath and clutches at the front of her shirt, fingers warm and lingering on her skin underneath. “What was that for?”

Maybe she just missed him. Maybe she just missed _this_.

Or maybe she’s just tired of fighting it. 

“Just felt right,” she says, and feels the smile on his lips when he leans in to kiss her again—deeper and longer and more desperate.

“You’ve had some practice since we last did this,” she says, a little breathless, as she teasingly slips her tongue inside his mouth. “Who else have you been kissing all this time, Rogers?”

He laughs shakily, his breath warm on her skin.

“No one,” he says, his voice quiet and genuine in the way that he always is. “There’s no one else but you.”

::

She thinks of _Love is for children,_ and _You have no place in the world_ ; of _How about a friend?_ and _I didn’t want you to be alone_ ; of _When will you ever see that you’re good, Natasha?_ and _You don’t have to do it alone anymore._

She thinks of Steve Rogers, opens her heart, listens to the way he makes her feel alive—and she thinks maybe it’s been building up to this, all along.

 _I have no place in the world,_ she thinks, _but maybe there’s a place for me here._

::

_“I love you.”_

_No… Please…_

_“You love me, too.”_

_No… No…_

_No… You’re lying…_

_“I’m not.”_

_Tell me the truth!_

_“I’m always honest, Nat. You know that.”_

_No! No more lies, god damn it!_

_“I’m not lying. I never lied to you.”_

_I—no. No, you’re lying._

_“No, I’m not. Especially when it comes to the way I feel about you.”_

_Through the burning in her eyes, she sees blue. Blue, blue, blue, staring back at her._

_Staring at her heart. Staring at her soul._

_In them, she sees the truth._

::

(Strong hands, running all over her skin. 

A warm tongue, hot and desperate against hers. 

His name, on her lips. 

Her name, on his. 

Beating hearts, frantic gasps, and three little words that remain unsaid as they topple over the edge. Together, like they always do.

Maybe they don’t need to be said, not right now.

Maybe they’ve kind of always known, anyway.)

::

In the morning, she wakes up to blue eyes and a sad smile and fingers tracing along her spine. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he whispers to her, and she watches the early morning sunlight fall across his face in soft lines and hazy streaks. His eyes find hers in the semi-darkness, and she wants to hit pause in this moment, live in it for as long as she can before it’s taken away. “But I want you to know that I don’t regret it.”

She takes a deep breath and listens to his breathing, drinks in the extra warmth of his skin, and thinks that she’s so damn tired of trying to fight it.

So she says, “Neither do I,” and takes his hand, leaning up to catch his lips in hers, and lets him hold her close for as long as he wants to.

::

_Why?_

_Why?_

_I don’t understand._

_“What?”_

_How…how could a heart like yours—ever love mine?_

::

In a way, nothing much changes.

He still leaves for Brooklyn for days at a time, and he doesn’t obligate her to come with him. Doesn't force her to stop holing herself up in the facility. Doesn’t ask her to stop tracking Clint, or taking care of too many things at once, or clinging onto that tiny thread of hope that just may be too small to hold onto. Doesn’t tell her to move on, or to talk about Sam, and Wanda, and Bucky, and everyone else they fucking lost in the aftermath.

Instead, he comes home to her after days of being away, slipping into bed behind her and planting kisses on her shoulder until she wakes. He frowns at cookbooks and prepares her meals, plays classical ballet music around the facility and lets her finish off the newspaper crosswords when she feels like the world is getting too heavy. He takes her on his bike further upstate for some fresh air when she’s overwhelmed, and lets her kick his ass in the gym to blow off steam. He brings her coffee while she’s working, quietly sketches in the corner of the room as she works, listens in on her teleconferences and offers input when asked. He washes the dishes and cleans up after her when she can’t bring herself to, carries her to bed and tucks her in when she falls asleep on the kitchen table, sprawled messily over her paperwork.

He doesn’t ask her to talk about it—about the way he calls her every night he’s out of town, or the way she can’t sleep without him beside her now. About the way she kisses him almost absentmindedly before she leaves a room, or the way he holds her hand while they watch mindless TV.

He doesn’t ask her to talk about what all of it means, about what _this_ is. 

All she knows is that when she looks at Steve Rogers, she sees her heart, staring back. 

And that’s fucking terrifying, and freeing, and overwhelming, all at the same time. 

::

(Because this is what this is:

He takes care of her when she doesn’t, and she lets him.

She holds him close when it gets too much, and he falls asleep with her arms wrapped around him, fingers carding gently through his hair.

Because this is what this is:

They fall into bed together, because they need it; they need the comfort, they need the intimacy, they need the release. Because they need to reassure each other that they’re here, that they’ll always be here, that they have this, that they can still be allowed to feel, even when the world is splintered all around them.

They need each other, because each other’s all they’ve got left.

Because this is what this is:

He doesn’t ask her to love him, and she’s terrified that that’s exactly what she does.)

::

She will never say it out loud, not to anybody, not even to Steve:

But the past couple of years have brought endless pain and loss and regret—and he’s been the one good thing in all of it.

::

_I don’t understand. Why do you love me?_

_“I just do,” he says. “I’ve always loved you. All of you.” There’s a small smile on his face. “I think I’ve loved you for the longest time.”_

::

When Scott Lang appears at their front gate, when Tony tells them he’s figured out how to travel through time, when she brings Clint home and holds him tight, when they stay up late planning and talking to undo everything they’ve done wrong and set it all _right_ again—

A part of her is still waiting for the shoe to drop, for the bubble to burst, for all of this to be ripped from her in a snap.

Another part of her hates the sliver of hope she gets, but she clings to it. She clings to it with her entire fucking life.

::

_A tear runs falls from those cool blue eyes. “You said you’d only be gone a minute.”_

::

“Maybe I should go with you,” Steve says, watching her from the bed as she changes into a ratty old T-shirt that she swiped from his closet ages ago. At her raised eyebrow, he clarifies, “To Vormir.”

She stills, hands grasping at the hem. “No,” she says. “We have a plan, Steve.”

“I know, it’s just…”

“It’s fine. I’ll be with Clint.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I know you guys can take care of yourselves, but…”

“Hey.” She places her hands on his shoulders, rubs up and down his arms. “Don’t worry, okay? We’ll get everybody back.”

He searches for something in her eyes for a long moment. She’s not sure what he finds. “That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

 _Can’t lose you, too,_ she remembers him saying.

 _You won’t,_ she remembers promising.

She smiles a little, reaching out to brush her hand against his now clean-shaven jaw. “You're still trying to protect me,” she says, her voice quiet. 

“I know I don’t need to, but…” He smiles a little sheepishly—that lopsided smile that makes her heart skip in her chest. “That's what you and I do.”

“Yeah,” she says, and maybe she’s learned to accept it for what it is. That they protect each other, whatever it damn takes, because that’s who they are, and they need each other. And that’s just the way it is. She catches his mouth in hers and kisses him for a long, long moment. “I guess that’s the truth.”

He doesn’t press her about going to Vormir, but she can see it, in his eyes. The worry. The fear. “Promise me you’ll be safe?”

“Promise.” She wraps her arms around his neck, hating the heavy feeling inside her chest. “We're gonna be okay.”

::

(“What is Vormir?”

“The dominion of death,” Nebula says from the front of the conference room, and Natasha exchanges a look with Clint. She doesn’t have to look at where Steve is standing by the door to know he’s watching her, and trying to look discreet about it.

“Just like old times, huh?” Clint whispers, nudging her elbow with his, making her pen slide straight across the page of her notepad.

She sighs and glares at him. “As long as it doesn’t end up like Budapest.”

“ _Nothing_ could ever end up like Budapest,” Clint says, then pauses, watching the tension in her spine. Then he follows her gaze to Steve, who’s trying and failing not to look in their direction. “Oh.”

She hits him in the ribs with just the right amount of force that makes him grunt. “Don’t.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“And you’re never gonna.”

His entire face softens when she meets his eye. “We’ll be okay, Nat. Cap’s gonna be okay, too.”

“Yeah,” she echoes, and hates how it feels and sounds like a lie.)

::

_“You told me I’d see you in a minute._

_I never did.”_

::

(“Romanoff,” Nebula says, pulling her to a quiet corner of the second-floor hallway. “There is something you have to know. About Vormir.”

Natasha knows everyone else is in the lab, and that Nebula’s perfectly timed this conversation. Her heart suddenly thunders in her chest. “Talk.”

“There have been…rumors. All over the galaxy. Not a lot of creatures believed Vormir existed, but the ones who did…” Nebula pauses, cold eyes meeting hers. “All I know is that Thanos went there with my sister and came back without her. And he came back with the soul stone instead.”

Natasha holds her gaze, her expression never betraying the ice-cold fear that slides down her spine.

“They call it the dominion of death for a reason,” Nebula whispers, “and there is a gravity in the situation that I need you to understand.”

She lets out a deep breath and thinks, _Whatever it takes._

She nods. “I understand perfectly.”)

::

In the next few weeks, she lets herself dream.

About the future.

About a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, maybe a stupid pet cat.

About blue eyes and a smile that she wants to wake up to, always.

And on that last night before they were set to travel back in time, she looks at those blue eyes, and she thinks of Vormir, she thinks of the soul stone, and she knows, she just knows— _it has to her_ —and she _hates_ it.

She traces her fingers against his jaw, feels him watching her in the dark. 

“Nat,” he says, his voice rough with sleep, “what’s wrong?” and it’s just like him to just know when something’s not quite right with her.

She shakes her head, her fingers dancing across his cheek, his temple, his hair, tugging on it, pulling his face closer until his forehead rests against hers.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says quietly. She pulls him into a kiss, and his mouth is soft and warm and so, so gentle—too gentle in her hands, too sweet, too undeserved—and she feels like crying.

“Nat.” He searches her eyes, doesn’t believe her. “Tell me.”

She schools her expression into a smile. “Nothing’s wrong,” she repeats. She swings a leg over his waist and straddles him, leaning down to whisper against his mouth. “Right now, everything’s perfect.”

She knows he still doesn’t believe her, especially when he kisses tears on her face, but she just shakes her head, and kisses and kisses him—takes and takes and loves and loves and gives her whole heart to this man who’s owned it for the longest time she’s ever allowed it to belong to anyone else. 

She sprawls on top of him; his hand runs down her spine. “Nat,” he says, mouth against her hair. 

She hums. She feels his heartbeat pick up under her hand, and she relishes in it, feeling him under her, feeling him alive.

He whispers, “I might be in love with you.”

She stills, and she knows he can feel her own heart, beating against his chest; matching it beat for beat, like maybe they’re one and the same.

“I know,” she says against his skin. 

_I might be in love with you, too_ , is what she doesn’t say.

Not when she knows; not when time isn’t on their side, and isn’t going to be. Not when she’s cursing the universe for giving her a taste of happiness and taking it away.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “I just want you to know that, whatever happens tomorrow. I’m never leaving you alone. Not now. Not ever.”

She raises her head to look him in the eye. Sees his feelings reflected in them, clear as day. She wonders why they’ve waited so long to have this. Why they’ve wasted so much time.

Now there isn’t any left.

“Promise?” she whispers; her hand fists his shirt, right above his heart.

“You know me,” he smiles almost lazily, cupping a hand on the back of her neck. “I always keep my promises.”

He pulls her down for a kiss, and she loses herself in him, in this.

She wishes she could tell him everything in the kiss, and in the ones that come after; in how she gasps and breathes out his name when he spills inside her.

She wishes she were brave enough to tell him how much he means to her.

She wishes she were brave enough to tell him goodbye.

::

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry I left._

::

He watches her braid her hair in front of the vanity the next morning, sitting on the bed behind her, already fully dressed and ready to go to war. “Hey, Nat?”

Natasha hums, meeting his eyes in the mirror as she finishes tying the end of her braid. “What?”

“Maybe…when this is all over…” He scratches his head, his sentence trailing off.

“Spill it, Steve.”

“You told me once, to get a life.”

“I did.”

“Well.” He shrugs. “What if I want that to be with you?”

She swallows the sudden lump in her throat. “Steve…”

“We’ll start slow,” he says, “maybe get coffee somewhere. As a first date. I don’t know. I don’t really know how to do this. I don’t think I’ve ever _been_ on a first date before.”

“Aren’t we kind of way past first dates?” she plays along, as if she doesn’t feel her heart crack into two. “I mean, I’ve never really been on one before, either, but isn’t the dating part supposed to go _before_ the screwing each other part?”

“Yeah, well,” he blushes, grinning lopsidedly, “we were always bad at figuring out the right time.”

::

_“You didn't just leave, Nat. You died.”_

_There is a long silence._

_“I just got you back.”_

_The voice breaks._

_“Please don’t leave me alone again.”_

::

At the last second, even though she knows—she _knows_ this could probably be the last time—she says, “See you in a minute,” and hopes he won’t see right through the smile she fakes as easily as she tells the lie. 

He smiles back at her and holds her gaze, his eyes soft, and she carries that with her, in her heart, warming her all over, as she takes a deep breath before they vanish into the quantum realm; and a deep, deep part of her wishes she could be selfish. Wishes she doesn't have to be the one to say goodbye.

::

_She finds those blue eyes staring at her, and she feels it again._

_Like she should know him._

_Like she’s home with him._

_She meets his eyes and asks again:_

_Who am I?_

_Who am I to you?_

_Who are you to me?_

::

Her legs dangle into nothingness as Clint’s fingers grip her wrist as tightly as he can go. “Let me go,” she whispers. 

“No _,_ ” Clint says, his voice breaking. “No.”

She nods. Smiles. As if that would make a difference. “It’s okay.”

“ _No._ ” Clint is crying. She feels like crying too, but she holds back, because she can’t do this. Not now. (Not ever.) “Please, no.”

She holds on, a little while longer, and whispers, “Will you tell him?”

“No,” he cries again, angrily this time. “No, you will tell him _yourself_ , god damn it!”

She shakes her head. The tears are streaming down her face now, rolling down the apples of her cheeks and down, down, down to the abyss below. She doesn’t follow them with her eyes.

 _Whatever it takes,_ she thinks, then kicks at the rock and slips from Clint’s grasp.

“ _NO!”_

Clint’s anguished scream follows her, down, down, down to the abyss below. 

The wind rushes in her ears. She feels eerily calm. Content. Relieved. The purple sky above her is beautiful and deceiving and mocking, all at once. 

_Where else can I get a view like this?_ she thinks, and she thinks of Steve, and she almost smiles.

And then she doesn’t smile at all.

::

Maybe _this_ is her place in the world:

She’s not in it. 

Not anymore.

::

(“There’s worse ways to go,” she remembers telling him, standing at the floating rock carrying all of Sokovia, and she looks out the wide expanse of the heavens. Wonders what it would feel like, the end. Wonders if it will hurt.

Wonders if it will be enough to rinse off the red.

She smiles instead, gesturing in front of her. “Where else am I gonna get a view like this?”

She feels his eyes on her for a long moment, and she knows he understands, even if he doesn’t say anything; and standing there with him, she feels strangely at peace.)

::

_“You’re Natasha Romanoff,” he tells her._

_She blinks up at him, at his bright blue eyes and a smile that melts her insides._

_She knows those eyes. She knows them._

_She knows him._

_She—she—_

_“I came back for you,” he continues. “And I’m not leaving you alone again. Not now. Not ever.”_

_A gasp. A memory._

_A warmth in her chest._

_A feeling._

_She reaches out, fingers dancing near his jaw, not quite making contact. He smiles down at her, his eyes wet and tired and sad, and they’re the bluest blue she’s ever seen._

_She knows him._

_She knows him._

_She_ knows _him._

_He’s—he’s—_

_Her eyes burn as his face—oh his tearful, hopeful, desperate face—materializes in front of her, and suddenly she just—she just_ knows _._

_She whispers, “Steve.”_

_“I’m here,” he says, looking at her in wonder._

_“Steve,” she says again, and this time, her hand grazes his face, and she closes her eyes at the feel of it. At the warmth. At the familiarity._

_At the feelings it stirs up inside her chest, making her feel alive._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“It’s okay.”_

_It’s not, but she just says, “You came back for me.”_

_His forehead against hers. His fingers against her own. His breath against her cheek._

_Skin against skin. Heart against heart._

_He breathes out:_

_“I didn’t want you to be alone.”_

_And then there’s lips against lips—slowly, gently, softly—and it feels like—_

_It feels like—_

_It feels like coming home._

::

(They were never really good at saying goodbye.

So they don't.)

**Author's Note:**

> (Title from "Gone, Gone, Gone" by Philip Philips)


End file.
